Many of the buildings along the tree-lined walk to my subway stop have fallen into a slightly shabby gentility, stone facades and carved faces worn away, paint cracking here and there, front yards a little disheveled from the winter and neglect. Above the doors of many of these old-timers the lintels proudly display names: The Park Court, the Woodrow Wilson, reminders of an earlier century and more prosperous times.
Above one particular building, however (flanked with two fussy, pillared entrances of grey stone, like a matron drawing her skirts back in dignified offense from the dreadfully vulgar brays of traffic) there are only two words: over one entrance is the name "Lillianette", and the other, "Paul."
I imagine them, an unhappily married upper-class couple, building their mansion with separate entrances so that they never had to see each other, divided servants forming up alliances, intrigues, plots; or conversely, the lone romantic architect, building a tribute to his beloved, sundered in life, but together forever above the discrete doorways to the same building, and their great love - unknown, unremarked, forgotten.
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